Veronica was glad to get back to the fire in her own room, and to feel dry again—­for seeing so much water had given her the sensation of being drenched.  And she sat down to think over what had happened in the morning, trying to understand her own disappointment, because she believed that she had expected nothing, and therefore that she could not be disappointed.  She was very glad to get back to her own room.  So far as she at all knew what a home meant, the Palazzo Macomer was home to her, and she had no distinct recollection of any other.  Gregorio and Matilde and Bosio were her own family, so far as she had ever known what to understand by the word.  They were more familiar to her than any other people in the world possibly could be, and if she felt that she had little affection for her aunt and uncle, yet she knew that there was a bond; and she was sincerely attached to Bosio for his own sake.

She had photographs of all three on the mantelpiece, in silver frames,—­that of her aunt standing in the middle, and one of the men on either side.  She looked at Bosio’s, taking it down from its place.  She looked at it critically, and seeing a speck of dust on the glass, just over the face, she passed her handkerchief over it, polishing the surface, and looking at it again.  From the photograph any one would have said that Bosio was a handsome man, for he photographed well, as the phrase goes.  His clear, pale complexion, his well-cut, refined features, his smooth, thick, silky hair looked singularly well against the smoked background, and had at once the strength and the transparency which make a good photograph by adding an illusion of relief to the flatness of mere outline and light and shade.  Probably the likeness was flattered.  But Veronica did not think so just then, coming as she did from a disillusionment which had affected her more strongly than she knew.  She compared Bosio with Gianluca, in appearance, and Gianluca lacked almost everything which could bear comparison.  She compared Bosio with Taquisara, and she preferred the quiet refinement of the one to the bold eyes and high aquiline features of the other.  At least, she thought so.  But she also preferred Taquisara to Gianluca, by many degrees of preference.  Yet both these men were commonly spoken of as handsome.

She thought of another point, too, and with her blood it was natural that she should think of it.  If she married Bosio, he would take her name and titles; not she, his.  She would rule the house and be independent—­not of him, exactly, for she was fond of him and had no desire to be despotic over him, but of parents and elders and relations who would think it their right to advise and guide.  All this would be different with Gianluca for her husband.  The Della Spina were proud of their name and would expect her to bear it.  They were numerous, too; the old father and mother would oppress and burden her life, and the brothers and sisters of Gianluca would grow up to be more or less of a perpetual annoyance to their elder brother’s wife.  Of that side of life her aunt had given her more than one picture, intentionally exaggerating a little, perhaps, for her own purposes.  And from Bianca she had heard many things of the same kind.  Married to Bosio, she would be free altogether from any one’s interference in her household.